


Nicks and Cuts

by staranise



Series: Gone for a Soldier [5]
Category: Clan Mitchell - Fandom, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clan Mitchell, Flashback, Gen, Military, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-24
Updated: 2008-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 07:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/210124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staranise/pseuds/staranise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coda to Synecdochic's "A Howling in the Factory Yard", Spencer and immediate fallout the morning after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nicks and Cuts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Take These Broken Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3531) by Synecdochic. 



> May be triggering to people with anxiety disorders (vivid description of PTSD flashback to grievous injury)

  
"Breakfast in half an hour," JD says, and holy _hell_ but Spencer wants to sock him. Not any real reason (he isn't thinking of or permitting himself to think of any good reason he might want to) except JD's awake, same bullshit _good morning campers_ routine as always ( _oh my ears and whiskers_ ), and Spencer slept like shit. He grunts, shuts the door in JD's face (will later regret being so brusque with him, but right now his mind is a twisted mess of things he's not looking at and making room for compassion for somebody else's shit is beyond him right now).

He strips and leaves the clothing in a pile in the middle of his room, pads for the shower. After a minute under the hot spray he ducks out again to grab the little bottle of shampoo, which is harsh and always runs into his mouth; Spencer cups his hands together and collects shower spray, then splashes the soap out of his face.

And before he knows it he's got his back to the far end of the tub, crouched down, curled up, waiting for the blows to fall on him; he's covering his face in his hands and he still won't think about it but oh _god_ his face is burning, he can feel it under his fingers, oozing out between them.

Even when he still feels it, even when he still _knows_ it's happening, he knows it's not and he's alive and well and far away, and he pounds a fist against the side of the tub and says, "God _damn_ it," and starts crying.

Spencer Griffith walked away whole from a lot of things he wasn't supposed to, and for reasons he only half-knows, he doesn't dream about the bad parts. Skipper's the better cook but Spencer always ends up doing the meat, trimming and jointing and dressing, because somewhere in Iraq something burned into Skipper's mind that means he can't do that without flinching anymore; Spencer never had that problem. He doesn't flinch at fireworks displays, doesn't feel terror when he hears helicopters, can drive across grass and dirt without bracing his hands on the steering wheel, never picked up the special scars so many of his brothers-and-sisters-in-arms carry.

Until now; until he hit this, until his brain finally found something it couldn't get over, so it's going to spit it back in his face ( _fucking funny, brain_ ) until he can, and hell if he knows if he'll ever be able to.

Finally (too long) he can breathe on his own, short raw gasps. He gets up, trembling, and puts a hand under the water ( _Brain? We going to go through that again?_ ) then fills another cupped handful of water, and lets it trickle over his face. It makes him flinch, makes him feel like something is crawling over his skin, his entire skin, but he can. He can step under the shower again, and rinse off.

Then he steps out onto the tile and towels off, and this part is going to be a fucking _bitch_. The bathroom is just enough of a squashed-in arrangement that he _can_ flip the toilet cover down and sit on it while he fills the sink, then rinse his face again with warm water. It's okay, this time, except his breathing's shaky as hell and his hands are trembling.

Shaving cream out on the counter and razor in his hand and he thinks, _you don't have to do this_. The stubble isn't quite noticeable yet. But then he thinks of what it would be like doing this tomorrow instead and says, very softly, "Yes I do."

And he manages one side of his face, sloppy job but you take what you can get, until finally his hand quakes a little much and there's a tiny flare of pain, and blood flowers on his chin, sends a little trickle into the white of the cream.

Spencer dips his razor into the water and watches the blood's progress, waiting for his demons to come. When they don't, he's almost more afraid, because he knows they're still out there.

Then he finishes shaving, finishes getting ready; puts his stuff in a bag and checks the room for anything he forgot. Then he goes and knocks on JD's door.

It took an hour, twice as long as JD gave him, but his ( _CO,_ half his brain supplies, then shies away, and he replaces it with _cousin_ ) cousin doesn't seem too worried when Spencer can finally look at him (too many things it makes him remember; they're spending a lot of time talking to each other's shoulders). "You've got a flight out at 1500," he says. "I'll drop you off once we've eaten."

"Sure," Spencer says. "Great."

So far as goodbyes go, it's not too awkward. They both at least have the courtesy not to pretend either of them's got his shit together. Spencer raises his hand, walks to the National Guard checkpoint by himself; when he turns around, JD's gone again.


End file.
